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^dc143cFlower that Blooms from Blood: Part 1^000000

 Unknown Author

Publisher's Comment:
This is a story that is widely believed to be a fictional tale written to bring attention 
to Freja, the goddess of love and beauty. Whether it originated from the written records 
of an adventurer, or from a heartbreaking song performed by bards has not been 
confirmed. Its title is unknown, and an original written copy of it hasn't been found. 
This tale is about two groups that fought for the Goddess Freja against Odin, and follows 
the exploits of a heroine chosen by the gods, similarly to our pope that was chosen 
by Freja. Religion is a major theme in this work, making it significant to sincere 
followers of Freja. We've decided to preserve what remains of this story 
because it has much cultural value to be forgotten, and have taken great pains to write 
a faithful resconstruction of the orignal version.  We hope that our readers will 
appreciate our efforts for historical accuracy, and enjoy this story.
                                                                     - Editor's Department 

1.
This land which was once covered in lush green grass was belching sooty smoke 
to the sky. It was hard to tell if the black clouds overhead were the ashes of war or 
signs of coming rain.  A thick gray fog blanketing the ground seemed to flood through
the mass of soldiers engaged in intense battle. They swung their weapons with 
murderous focus, callously stepping over their fallen comrades whose bodies had become 
a part of the layer of soot on the ground.

Freya's faithful believed their cause to be righteous: they had come to this land, 
worked to make it habitable, but the native heathens were too stubborn to pledge 
their lives and loyalty to their loving, generous goddess. Naturally, the natives were 
sure that they had been wronged, indignant that these religious zealots whom they had 
warmly welcomed to their land had the audacity to force them to convert to their strange 
religion. Although Freya's followers and the natives had lived together peacefully 
for a while, but their conflicting beliefs over religion made war inevitable. 

A vivid red trail snaked across the sooty plains, the bloodshed marking where the soldiers 
had advanced. The deep, rumbling thunder and dark clouds in the sky looming over 
the scattered bodies seemed to protest the petty violence of the soldiers that were 
fighting.

"Will it rain soon?"

A lone, young man drew a deep breath as he adjusted his grip on his sword. How many days 
had he been fighting? When was the war going to end? He leaned against a broken carriage, 
and looked up the to sky for an answer. All he saw were black, ominous clouds.

"I guess... It's going to rain."

^fa8072"Senia, I'm sorry. I mean it! How longer are you planning on being mad at me?"
"Hmpf!"
"Look, Senia. This rose just bloomed, just like promised. See? These petals are deep 
crimson. Just like your cheeks, Sen."
Khras held out the rose to Sen, who was leaning out the window. She looked down at him 
with a sigh. Another sulky response.
"You're too late again. Look at the sky."

Once again, the sky cleared before Khras could make it over to Sen. This was 
the fifth time that Khras failed to bring Senia a freshly bloomed rose on a rainy day, 
a near impossible task in the desert hillside. Senia was definitely asking too much from 
him. Even though it shouldn't have been possible, even though he wasted precious water 
on growing those roses, even though his family and the townspeople though he was crazy, 
somehow he had made that promise to her two years ago.


The clanging of armor startled Kshar from his daydream. The cold sweat running down 
his cheeks, and that familiar chill in his stomach signaled that an enemy was near. 
He tried to slow his breath, instinctively tighted the dagger tied to his left wrist, 
and then quietly reached for his sword. The clatter of swords drew closer 
behind the carriage Kshar was leaning against.

He was so close! Should he surprise him and strike first? Did he see me from a distance, 
and come to kill me? What if he's just a messenger? What if he just wants to tell me 
the war is over and I don't have to hide anymore? Wait, that can't be possible! Kshar 
tensed as the thoughts pulsed through his mind in sync with his quickening heart. 
The war had lost its lofty meaning to Kshar after days of facing berserk soldiers 
slaughtering each other for no reason. Everyone seemed to be yelling the name of 
their god, but it was all wanton killing. Forget ideals, the promises of the gods. 
They were animals now, just fighting to survive. No wonder Kshar felt so bitter.

Khras slowly inched behind a large wooden board that had fallen from the broken carriage. 
The clanging of metal ceased, and Khras held his breath.,and then slowly edged out from 
behind his hiding place. He spied a large man nearby that was carefully searching 
the distance, but didn't seem to indicate that he had seen Khras. The large man then 
crawled into the pit created from the impact of the falling carriage. Khras quickly rushed 
the big man, grabbed his throat, and scraped the edge of his dagger 
against the adam's apple.

"Are you friend or foe?" Khras hoarsely whispered.
"Why don't you figure it out yourself?"
Khras's dagger dug just deep enough to let a little blood trickle down the blade.
"Answer me! Are you friend or foe?"
"Why didn't you just kill me?"
Khras's eyes widened at the man's question. He could have just slashed the throat, and 
didn't know why he was so hesitant to kill this man. The absurdity made his want to 
laugh out loud. Then again, killing this man wouldn't ensure his own survival in the war. 
After a long and thoughtful pause, Khras shot back with his own question.
"Why should I kill you?"
The big man snorted and gently shrugged his shoulders.
"I think I know what you mean. I don't know how to answer you. This war is being fought 
for the sake of the gods, but if you want to win, you've got to kill your enemy more than 
he kills you. I suppose those are the rules."
The man paused, and inhaled deeply. Khras couldn't see his face, he could tell the man was 
trying not to let out a small chuckle. Khras tightened his hold.
"Go on. Keep talking."
The man shrugged, and gently pushed the dagger away from his throat with his finger. 
Khras didn't stop him, and waited to hear the man's words.
"To kill the enemy, you need to tell them apart from your friends. That's why we have 
uniforms, to keep us from making silly mistakes like this. Wouldn't you agree Khras?"
Khras jumped me at the sound of his name, and took a quick, closer look behind 
his captive. Khras could see from the man's priest armor told Khras that he was 
a mercenary. The small, sacred symbol hanging from the broad maroon belt, stained with 
dirt and blood, signaled that he was fighting for the goddess Freya. They were certainly 
on the same side, but how did this man know Khras's name? The man slowly turned 
and flashed Khras a gentle smile.
"Well, how has she been doing lately?"
"What... What?"
Khras recognized Beren's face, and rushed to hug him.
"Goddess! What have I done? I almost killed you, Beren!"
Beren patted Khras on the back, trying his best to relieve him of his guilt over intending 
to kill a friend. Beren quietly look at Khras for a minute, and then starting digging 
the pit deeper by using a wooden board torn off the carriage. When the pit was 
deep enough, he smoothed the ground around it, and covered the hole with the carriage. 
Now he had the perfect hiding place.

Khras looked at Beren while gently stroking the blade of his dagger. As Beren took a seat 
next to him, Khras quietly asked,
"How did you know it was me?"
Beren smiled. "You're the only one I know that carries a weapon on his left arm
instead of a shield. I lucked out--if I didn't know that, you might have already 
killed me. It's been a few years since we last saw each other, right? I really wish 
we could have reunited under different circumstances."
"Yeah..."

The sky was clouded to tell if it was day or night. The loud clamor of screams and weapons 
grew more distant, and was replaced by the growing rumbling of thunder and lightning from 
the clouds.
"I guess it's going to rain soon." Khras mumbled.
Beren nodded his head, and looked up to the sky.
"I suppose the battle will be over soon. One way or another."
"I thought it'd never end. It was insanity out there."
Khras paused thoughtfully. "Beren... You should feel lucky that you weren't part of 
the worst of it."
"But... I was at the 3rd array."
"Yeah? Well, I..."
Khras stared at Beren for a while, and then looked up the sky.
"I was the one that burned down these plains while escaping to the outskirts. They used 
teem with golden wheat under the autumn sun. Now look. I reduced it to charred earth. 
Those were my orders, it was our strategy... But I think it's our loss. 
It was so beautiful, and I ruined it all."
"Either way, I think we were lucky not to fight those maniacs in the hills over there. 
They're still fighting, even though there's no hope of them winning. 
It's completely idiotic."
Khras blinked his eyes as the first drops of rain hit him in the face. The flashes of 
lightning and the rumbling of thunder arrived at full force, ushering in the pouring rain. 
The rain furiously pounded the ground, splashing the ashes, churning the dust into 
a muddy blood red. Beren quietly watched the red raindrops. Its color reminded him of 
roses, and an old memory came back to him.
"Khras? What ever happened to her? Sen... That was her name, right? The one that made that 
weird promise with you."
"Her name was Senia."
"Senia, that's right. What made you promise to bring her fresh roses in the rain?"
Khras felt a little confused. Those happy, earnest times felt so far away. He smiled to 
himself. The war wasn't that important on a cosmic scale. He was better off thinking about 
what really made him happy. Khras's thoughts pleasantly drifted towards 
the beautiful Senia, whose skin was fresh as the petals from a white lily.

- To be continued.

*Characters and events in this story are all fictional; have nothing to do with reality.
